1.. 2... 3... SIX!
No, not the right number of... SIX!
Vacation or post? Mental asylum considered, but you couldn't escape your head if your wrists were slit.
Tried that a few lifetimes back, experimenting with suicide rarely satisfies since either you fail or not get the opportunity to see the benefits.
And you can't talk away the dozen stacks of porn movies littering the air surrounding your corpse. Not that you'd care at such point. *shrugs* So this place what is it?
Old battleground. Holo-computer screen said, in a fairly sultry electronic tone, some War thing happened a thousand billion hundred minutes before we were damned to living, and one or both sides just cock-thrusted a Fat Boy sized payload stacked with offensive miscellaneous onto the planet. Witch doctors couldn't figure the stuff out, so why the fuck not. And as all concocted cocktail fates, the shit turned the once pretty girl into a psychological mess.
For the lesser of us, please.
There are weapons "trapped" in the atmosphere. Scared, confused, bit horny depending on the weather, children that were birthed to cause damage, any kind of damage, chained by air particles and dust and curses or whatever the hell. The more.. creative ones found a way to be handled, in the literal. Interstellar janitor discovered it, bored one evening cleaning Alien horse shit (horses survive everywhere beats me), he began mimicking Luke Joker Skywalker. Waving his broom around against the onslaught of too much time, he suddenly realized that something to his front, something he couldn't see or smell, had accepted his two-handed challenge at the physical state.
A world saddled with unimaginable horrors, how fantastic. Still doesn't make sense why the powers put you here?
As my story continues, each of the armaments can be accessed using certain non-practical methods. Like, a revolver that grips and spins when you *looks up* count to a specific number. Simple, no? But with these sort of tricky things, there's always a caveat. The damn gun goes off only if you skip two of the numbers between, 1... 2... 3... SIX! Theoretically, anyways.
Why not just four then?
Why not call a therapist and drown oneself in chocolate eclair? Sacrifice, dear Least One.
Too much work, and far from viable, don't you agree?
Well yeah, shit and crackers. I'm here to babysit, the fuckers up top are a-fwaid that anyone more insane than them might decide to throw this whole planet at something, hopes that mating would multiply the weirdness exponential. Paranoid bipeds, but you knew that. Let's shut this book and continue that started bout of solitaire- SIX!
Saturday, May 26, 2012
Sunday, May 13, 2012
Villains
You have to understand. I didn't have the same life growing up here.
You had friends, family, quarrels, lovers, meaning. Each square of
mismatched concrete you've stepped, fallen on, locking a piece of "you"
into its cracks and dents. You were somebody, even if to the rest
of outside, you really weren't. But this isn't about you, I'm just
terribly dramatic.
You're not the enemy. No one person or single even can be. My antagonist has always been this town. Layers of my bruised skin forcefully sewn in with cotton loomed by infective madness, their histories caught and twisted into a thread capable of piercing sans needle. Never did I get to lay in the dry grass on a summer afternoon, watching as my possibly drunk friends tussle a few feet away, the sound of their laughter melding with the birds squawking above. No fleeting companions, no first romps, no first kiss, no last kiss; a non-existent number of beginnings and endings taken for granted by everyone else who should be damned grateful for being blessed by the Gods. Only violence, rejection, and hurt, six loaded barrels but never one to end.
You're not the enemy. No one person or single even can be. My antagonist has always been this town. Layers of my bruised skin forcefully sewn in with cotton loomed by infective madness, their histories caught and twisted into a thread capable of piercing sans needle. Never did I get to lay in the dry grass on a summer afternoon, watching as my possibly drunk friends tussle a few feet away, the sound of their laughter melding with the birds squawking above. No fleeting companions, no first romps, no first kiss, no last kiss; a non-existent number of beginnings and endings taken for granted by everyone else who should be damned grateful for being blessed by the Gods. Only violence, rejection, and hurt, six loaded barrels but never one to end.
Saturday, May 5, 2012
Lucid
The spring-haired brunette in the white tank with whom I'd spent hours, days, minutes and seconds, smiled as the curtains unraveled. Scenery built by amateur stagehands after a celebratory night out, they created something very different.
Foreshadowing my ascent into malevolent godhood, the night terrors that haunt me have made a run at the heart. We dragged across a white sanded beach under half-light, the visible stars imposing their will, trying not to spark consciousness in a sunken dreamer. Black waves this go around, moonlight pale countenance overpowering a youthful form I literally can't describe. The clock chimed and awareness gave descent. My beautiful opaque-eyed stowaway was but painful longing come-to-life, another vague miss to help spend eternity in a night. An entitlement to truth left little choice, I told her then she wasn't real. Her presence came at a sullen heart's whim, the chanced amalgam of other world hopes, bred in sedation by a mind pleading to make sense of it all.
This world, our world, caught fire. Remnants of the paper sky tearing moon by star with words regretfully confessed by a fucking fool. She'd disappear like all the others who could never stay, machined reality crashing down and down, unsympathetic to the wants of its failing occupants. I stood seconds away and watched her fade, a coy of unexpected satisfaction dreamed onto her dying smirk.
Foreshadowing my ascent into malevolent godhood, the night terrors that haunt me have made a run at the heart. We dragged across a white sanded beach under half-light, the visible stars imposing their will, trying not to spark consciousness in a sunken dreamer. Black waves this go around, moonlight pale countenance overpowering a youthful form I literally can't describe. The clock chimed and awareness gave descent. My beautiful opaque-eyed stowaway was but painful longing come-to-life, another vague miss to help spend eternity in a night. An entitlement to truth left little choice, I told her then she wasn't real. Her presence came at a sullen heart's whim, the chanced amalgam of other world hopes, bred in sedation by a mind pleading to make sense of it all.
This world, our world, caught fire. Remnants of the paper sky tearing moon by star with words regretfully confessed by a fucking fool. She'd disappear like all the others who could never stay, machined reality crashing down and down, unsympathetic to the wants of its failing occupants. I stood seconds away and watched her fade, a coy of unexpected satisfaction dreamed onto her dying smirk.
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Distortion
Sunday
These headphones aren't cutting it. The sense of space is uneven, the weight of the instruments is lacking in a not particularly enjoyable way. I'm listening to a live performance through a tin can with a large opening and acoustic depth equaling a few metric fucks. I need a new but no so new model, something tried and true and under appreciated by people attached to shite ears. Ah! I know which one! Been doing my consumer research, a thing I do for most things shiny and near unaffordable. The price doesn't leave much to the gutter, or the wallet..
Saturday
A donut box? I've never cared for packaging, but for the money they could've at least glued on some tulips to the outside. Or included a bakers dozen of Boston Cremes. The headphones themselves are lovely, if you're into the whole macabre android feel. Off-white mesh, squarish cups, and a headband colored neither truly black or red, yet would look fine on a widow's funeral garb. They do (unexpectedly) fit quite proper. Even look nice on my large head, if the mirror isn't tell another one of its pleasant lies.
Monday
I've hit play on this LP a hundred times. It's not a favorite per se, but the lead vocalist has a distinct sorrowfulness to her tone, even on the upbeat tracks. Her voice is a cracked water balloon waiting to burst into tears, weakened knees dropped to the gravel. And she's a redhead.
Tuesday
This can't be right. The violins sound unnatural, the drums have too much impact, a cavalry of horse-drawn bullets shot into my skull all at once. Fucking treble. The upper frequencies pull the singer's voice into the ether, the midrange is candied with sickening sweetness. Gods may require ambrosia an wine with their music, I don't. That's not how she or any woman sounds in reality, tonal accuracy is king. Hope I didn't waste all that money on a broken clock.
Wednesday
I won't listen to them anymore. These mockeries turned my beloved red haired artist into a sonic farce, and I refuse to enable their behavior. A wonderful voice and tragic words massacred by a headphone's will. How could so many people love them? Do audiophiles have ears made of tin, or are they just blind to their own wants?
Thursday
Fuck you, I'm not spending $300 on a cable.
Sunday
The ghost audience caters to the strands of red blowing past her lips. Their hands held and lead by musical contradictions, affronting accepted tonality for her sake and newly mine. The instruments decay towards her presence, strings slammed, snares plucked in a concert hall awaiting glorious relent from the torrid storm of aching hearts set free.
The real world is etched in bone, bled in black and red. Her voice sounds perfect.
These headphones aren't cutting it. The sense of space is uneven, the weight of the instruments is lacking in a not particularly enjoyable way. I'm listening to a live performance through a tin can with a large opening and acoustic depth equaling a few metric fucks. I need a new but no so new model, something tried and true and under appreciated by people attached to shite ears. Ah! I know which one! Been doing my consumer research, a thing I do for most things shiny and near unaffordable. The price doesn't leave much to the gutter, or the wallet..
Saturday
A donut box? I've never cared for packaging, but for the money they could've at least glued on some tulips to the outside. Or included a bakers dozen of Boston Cremes. The headphones themselves are lovely, if you're into the whole macabre android feel. Off-white mesh, squarish cups, and a headband colored neither truly black or red, yet would look fine on a widow's funeral garb. They do (unexpectedly) fit quite proper. Even look nice on my large head, if the mirror isn't tell another one of its pleasant lies.
Monday
I've hit play on this LP a hundred times. It's not a favorite per se, but the lead vocalist has a distinct sorrowfulness to her tone, even on the upbeat tracks. Her voice is a cracked water balloon waiting to burst into tears, weakened knees dropped to the gravel. And she's a redhead.
Tuesday
This can't be right. The violins sound unnatural, the drums have too much impact, a cavalry of horse-drawn bullets shot into my skull all at once. Fucking treble. The upper frequencies pull the singer's voice into the ether, the midrange is candied with sickening sweetness. Gods may require ambrosia an wine with their music, I don't. That's not how she or any woman sounds in reality, tonal accuracy is king. Hope I didn't waste all that money on a broken clock.
Wednesday
I won't listen to them anymore. These mockeries turned my beloved red haired artist into a sonic farce, and I refuse to enable their behavior. A wonderful voice and tragic words massacred by a headphone's will. How could so many people love them? Do audiophiles have ears made of tin, or are they just blind to their own wants?
Thursday
Fuck you, I'm not spending $300 on a cable.
Sunday
The ghost audience caters to the strands of red blowing past her lips. Their hands held and lead by musical contradictions, affronting accepted tonality for her sake and newly mine. The instruments decay towards her presence, strings slammed, snares plucked in a concert hall awaiting glorious relent from the torrid storm of aching hearts set free.
The real world is etched in bone, bled in black and red. Her voice sounds perfect.
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
Half-Staff, Eclipsing a Full Moon
[The cafeteria in an unnamed high school somewhere in the North. A young woman, age no more than 17 years, no less than 17 years, sits by the feed line]
Damselle: "I fucking hate this pale pallet polly-pocket school. So drab, so trying of my tender teenage patti-ence. La femme, she dreams of men and monsters from other whirls, the pretty girl, cette pretty girl. With really soft hair. You like my hair? Of course you do, you're me and I love my hair."
[A mysteriously mysterious mystery boy appears in from of Damselle. She's never laid eyes on him, he's new, but not new, like mainstream Country]
Ward: "...Hello."
Damselle: [Looks this skinny fucker up and down, and up again] "Who the fuck are you?"
Ward: "Er.. uh, I'm 'Ward. I'm new to this school, and I saw you looking at me, penetrating my eyes. So-"
Damselle: "The ice cream machine. The vendor. To your left, where you were setting. Wasn't penetrating your anything, twiggy."
Ward: "No, no. Y-you looked at me, into my heart, and you saw a man in need of... lust. A dark forbidden romance that can never be said, like all the the others who came before..."
Damselle: "Doubt you've made anyone come before. And I'm not into guys who resemble androgynous goth chicks, only half-Brit here."
Ward: "But can't you sense it? My broken soul. It calls to you, sends you midnight text messages asking to mend it with your nubile touch. Don't you want save me? I'm different. I'm not like them. I'm not like anyone."
Damselle: "Guy, I came to eat lunch, ponder the stars, and maybe have a fucking Klondike Bar. I ain't out to save nobody that ain't this body. Something of which I should clarify your bony fingers ain't ever gonna 'lust' or whatever the fuck. Now shove off, you look at least 30. And I don't mean "cute" 30."
Ward: "I'll leave then, if that is your desire, my future underage love. My skin will continue to ache... for you... under my... aching... skin."
[Ward sparkles away, or glitters, I don't write this shit]
Damselle: "That was pretty fucking weird. I'll go for Le Eclair Chocolat."
Sunday, February 26, 2012
The Start of Something Mediocre (Part 1)
It's gotta be around six years, at least perceptually. Time is difficult to clock when there's little light, and less sound. No screams, no cries, just silence. My own voice is negated, these words flowing from the mind's throat box. The last thing I recall before "arriving" here was the feeling of pain slipping away. The kind in which your first instinctive thought is to try and hold on to it, fearing the loss of something inherent to one's living process. Futile considering the context, unclear as it may have been.
Blue eyes. Slightly rounder, more shapely than the average. Her narrow face and waved hair accentuated their size and luster, nameless diamond seas jeweled inside. A book, she would often flip through. Smartphones were the norm where I'm from, but she said there was something "ritualistic" with books, the paper being made from histories of the dead and inked with thoughts hoping to be bound for eternity. I took her word for it, angels tend not to lie from my experience. (Not that I could say an angel was what she was.. is)
Fury and flames and little demon people with red forks. That's what the zealous preachers said it would be. I never read the Bible, but I did skim the first third of The Divine Comedy. Abridged version, I'm not fucking superman. Temperature leans towards cold, just enough to make the hair on your legs stand at attention. No devil's vertically-damned helpers either, I've only seen one "person" here other than I, and she's only macabre in personality. Her entrances are sporadic to say the best, I expend much of my sanity wonder if she's real or just another fabricated need my hopes refuse to unhand.
Blue eyes. Slightly rounder, more shapely than the average. Her narrow face and waved hair accentuated their size and luster, nameless diamond seas jeweled inside. A book, she would often flip through. Smartphones were the norm where I'm from, but she said there was something "ritualistic" with books, the paper being made from histories of the dead and inked with thoughts hoping to be bound for eternity. I took her word for it, angels tend not to lie from my experience. (Not that I could say an angel was what she was.. is)
Fury and flames and little demon people with red forks. That's what the zealous preachers said it would be. I never read the Bible, but I did skim the first third of The Divine Comedy. Abridged version, I'm not fucking superman. Temperature leans towards cold, just enough to make the hair on your legs stand at attention. No devil's vertically-damned helpers either, I've only seen one "person" here other than I, and she's only macabre in personality. Her entrances are sporadic to say the best, I expend much of my sanity wonder if she's real or just another fabricated need my hopes refuse to unhand.
Saturday, February 11, 2012
Doubleshot
Never been fond of funerals. Never been to a funeral. Never knew anyone worth remembering in death or life. Sure my friends would feel in kind. This one wasn't special in any known classification of ceremony. I've seen weddings with more sulking and regret. (*Think* I've been to one, if it matters) The mother's not in tears, with a near-catatonic non-expression. Father just looks pissed. Guess the culture disapproves of children offing themselves before the parents get a chance. The remaining attendees appear to be uncaring distant cousins and what looks like a stuffed teddy bear. It is a stuffed teddy bear, but all the dirt built up on it's (her?) face sorta makes her resemble a blonde-haired infant with a bitty flower bow. Perhaps it's just me.
It wasn't "the drugs". Bit of caffeine and liquor in recreation, far from what the clean-dressed peanut gallery speculate. Not meth or crack or coke (like he could afford coke) or even sweet ol' Mary Jane. Kid didn't even like cigarette smoke, he remarked once that it tasted like ash and abusive older brothers. People will always think what they think. Then what? It was the moment. The state of being at one specific point in time, the very instant. The "now". There was no "looking forward to", or vice verse. Memories fade, all which can be considered true and living and blood-pumping exists in the current slice of measurable reality. The kid had been born broken. He felt for nothing else. But broken clocks wear down, and eventually quit ticking. Sometimes of their own desire.
Such beauty. Predominately in the ass and connecting areas, wonderful calves. Could've been a King's mistress in a previous age. Madame de... Sexy Legs. If he had known a girl like that would be roaming his deathbed, he'd of never entertained that lead demitasse. Her hair was red, or blonde, could've been brunette.. should've been blonde. That's how I'll remember it in the time yet given. I graciously stumble towards her, swiftly palm her slender pale-flesh of a hand, and ask politely her if she knew the kid. Pretty thing says "No, I just came to say hi". We both instinctively veer to the left (her right), down at the open casket, the peaceful face of the kid now in view. It's... weird, I could say. Taking in your own reflection.
It wasn't "the drugs". Bit of caffeine and liquor in recreation, far from what the clean-dressed peanut gallery speculate. Not meth or crack or coke (like he could afford coke) or even sweet ol' Mary Jane. Kid didn't even like cigarette smoke, he remarked once that it tasted like ash and abusive older brothers. People will always think what they think. Then what? It was the moment. The state of being at one specific point in time, the very instant. The "now". There was no "looking forward to", or vice verse. Memories fade, all which can be considered true and living and blood-pumping exists in the current slice of measurable reality. The kid had been born broken. He felt for nothing else. But broken clocks wear down, and eventually quit ticking. Sometimes of their own desire.
Such beauty. Predominately in the ass and connecting areas, wonderful calves. Could've been a King's mistress in a previous age. Madame de... Sexy Legs. If he had known a girl like that would be roaming his deathbed, he'd of never entertained that lead demitasse. Her hair was red, or blonde, could've been brunette.. should've been blonde. That's how I'll remember it in the time yet given. I graciously stumble towards her, swiftly palm her slender pale-flesh of a hand, and ask politely her if she knew the kid. Pretty thing says "No, I just came to say hi". We both instinctively veer to the left (her right), down at the open casket, the peaceful face of the kid now in view. It's... weird, I could say. Taking in your own reflection.
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